


Blunders

by Aaron_The_8th_Demon



Series: 5 Missed Shots, 1 Game-Winner [4]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2015-2016 NHL Season, Angst, Bad Ideas, Clueless Patrice, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-08-20 09:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20225902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaron_The_8th_Demon/pseuds/Aaron_The_8th_Demon
Summary: There’s not a lot of point answering the phone right now. He’s still rattled by the devastating 5-1 loss to Montreal yesterday and it’s too obvious to hide, so he’s just insulating himself against the world for the time being, curled up on his couch under a blanket and watching tv with the volume muted while he stews. He wasn’t good enough. They weren’t good enough. It was humiliating, against the fucking Habs of all teams, and… he’s still not over the suspension thing. Maybe they could’ve won if Brad didn’t get tossed. He wanted to win a Winter Classic in the biggest rivalry the NHL has to offer, with his best friend on his wing.





	Blunders

**Author's Note:**

> This is porn, but it's not plotless, believe me.

Patrice’s phone rings. He doesn’t answer it.

There’s not a lot of point answering the phone right now. He’s still rattled by the devastating 5-1 loss to Montreal yesterday and it’s too obvious to hide, so he’s just insulating himself against the world for the time being, curled up on his couch under a blanket and watching tv with the volume muted while he stews. He wasn’t good enough. They weren’t good enough. It was humiliating, against the fucking Habs of all teams, and… he’s still not over the suspension thing. Maybe they could’ve won if Brad didn’t get tossed. He wanted to win a Winter Classic in the biggest rivalry the NHL has to offer, with his best friend on his wing.

It’s been a tough few weeks, to say the least. They haven’t been able to string together a win streak of more than two games since November and there’s been a couple injuries on top of that. That’s not a great combination for team morale.

His phone stops ringing for three seconds and then starts again, which is annoying. Patrice wants to be left alone and he also doesn’t want to get out from under the blanket. So he keeps ignoring his phone, listens for the ping to tell him he has a voicemail. If it’s important there’ll be one. The ping doesn’t come, instead his phone rings a third time and fuck whoever is doing this for being persistent because he really doesn’t want to talk right now. Eventually Patrice gives up and goes over to silence his phone, but when he picks it up he sees that it’s Brad. He immediately feels bad for ignoring his best friend and answers it.

“Hey, Marchy.”

“Hey Bergs, can I come over?”

“Why?”

“Because… look can I just come over?”

“Um, okay. You don’t have to ask that, you know. There’s a reason you have a key.”

“Yeah, but I thought you’re mad at me for getting suspended.”

“I’m not mad, I’m just… yes you can come over, just stop calling, I didn’t want to get up.”

There’s a brief chuckle on the other end. “Okay, I’ll be there in twenty.”

Patrice tosses his phone on the table and goes back to his cocoon on the couch. He stares at the noiseless pictures on his tv screen, falling back into a mental hamster wheel of “where did it go wrong” and imagining every single turnover, every whistle blow, every missed shot. He tries to figure out what they could’ve done differently. He keeps landing on the hole in his line, the spot where Brad should’ve been but filled by another team mate. The thing is he doesn’t blame Brad necessarily. Brad got suspended in the game against the Senators, but the entire time he’d maintained that he didn’t mean to clip Borowiecki and that he was just trying to complete a turn. Patrice believes him about that - Brad may be a dirty player sometimes and a first-rate pain in the ass for other teams, but he’s not a liar. When he does something bad on purpose, he always admits it. So Patrice actually chalks this one up to Brad’s bad rep coming back to bite him.

Brad shows up with ice cream and a blanket - specifically a new blanket, one of those soft synthetic fleece ones made out of old soda bottles. Patrice raises an eyebrow.

“Peace offering,” Brad explains, unrolling the blanket and wrapping it around Patrice before going into the kitchen to dig for a pair of spoons. He drops heavily onto the other end of the couch and starts prying the lid off the tub of ice cream. “I knew you’d be doing this and you like blankets.”

Patrice sighs. “I’m not mad at you, Marchy. I know you didn’t get suspended on purpose.”

Brad shrugs. “Yeah, but I’m still sorry.” He takes a bite of ice cream and passes it over, along with the second spoon. “I wish I was better.”

“Why? You always do your best on the ice, you’re a great team mate.”

“No, Bergy, I wish _ I _ was better. As in not shitty. As in not getting in trouble all the fucking time for doing stupid shit. And great team mates aren’t always getting tossed by refs for shit.”

As much as Patrice loves Brad, he’s not sure he can deal with this right now. He’s tried again and again over the years to convince Brad of his worth and it doesn’t work no matter what he says. He just wants to sit and be miserable on his own terms.

“Marchy…”

“What?”

“You need to stop saying shit like that, okay?”

“Sorry.”

Brad deflates and Patrice immediately feels bad for saying anything. For a few minutes they sit in silence, sharing the ice cream and blaming themselves for the loss. It’s only when Patrice thinks about getting up and putting the ice cream in his freezer that he notices they both somehow drifted to the center of the couch and are pressed against each other. The ice cream will be okay for a few more minutes, he decides, not disturbing Brad and choosing to keep sitting instead. They both probably need this, some quiet physical contact as they beat themselves up mentally.

“You ever wanna just… turn your brain off?” Brad asks after awhile.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean like. I don’t wanna keep thinking about this. I can’t change anything.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess. What’s the best distraction when you want to stop thinking?”

Brad shrugs. “I don’t know… getting laid probably. What about you?”

“I never stop thinking.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. It’s how I knew you’d be curled into a ball on the couch being miserable.”

“Am I that predictable?”

“Pretty much.”

Patrice sighs. “So how come you didn’t just go out and get laid instead of coming over to be miserable with me?”

“Because I don’t really go out looking for sex anymore, I’ve been trying to have actual relationships like you keep talking about.”

“You know Seggy was talking about this to me a couple months ago… he said I owed you better sex.”

“Of course he fucking said that. What’d you say?”

“I don’t remember, but it had something to do with the word ‘no.’ If it wouldn’t hurt our friendship it’d be a different story, but you were freaking out so badly the first time…”

Brad shrugs. “I mean. It wasn’t _ bad. _ I don’t think you owe me better sex, Bergy. If you’re offering I’ll take you up on it, but I don’t want you to feel guilty or whatever.”

“Will it make you stop blaming yourself for us losing this game?”

“Holy shit, are you _ serious? _” Brad blurts out.

“You said getting laid will make your brain turn off. I know this is something you think about sometimes and I want to help you feel better. The refs made a bad call. It’s not your fault that they did.”

“Yeah, okay, but can we go back to the part where you’re offering sex, Bergy?”

“If you’re going to be weird about it we don’t have to.” Patrice wants Brad to feel better. If Brad feels better maybe he can feel better, too. “Do you want it?”

For once, Brad actually seems lost for words, because he sits there gawking for almost a full minute before finally nodding. Patrice reaches across the couch and pulls Brad back over to him, thinking… Tyler was right about this one thing. He owes Brad better sex. He needs to make it as good as possible. In his experience, good sex starts with good kissing, so that’s what he does. Brad tastes like ice cream, he’s warm and solidly muscular but soft in all the right spots. Patrice pulls him in close and holds him there, resolving that they won’t move off this couch until Brad has been thoroughly kissed.

Brad doesn’t hold still, though. His hands slide under Patrice’s shirt, feeling across the skin there. Patrice’s nerves prickle pleasantly under every touch as fingertips brush along his back and flanks, and he can already feel Brad starting to breathe a little harder. He starts to wonder why he thought this was such a bad idea before. Right now, it looks like a pretty damn _ good _ idea, because they both clearly needed this.

Patrice stops thinking so hard after that. He’s busy pulling off Brad’s sweatshirt instead, then the undershirt beneath it. They connect here the same way they do on the ice, with Brad anticipating his moves and lying back on the couch without having to be told. It’s a playground for Patrice’s hands and mouth - he feels all of Brad’s torso and follows that up with kisses going from the neck down, sometimes lightly sucking the skin as well but being careful not to leave marks any place that will show. Leaving a bright red hickey on someone’s throat is too possessive and Patrice doesn’t like the idea of making anyone feel owned, that’s not really his thing, so the red spots he leaves are mostly on Brad’s chest and abs where only Brad gets to enjoy them.

Brad pulls him up by his shoulders and they’re kissing again while his shirt is slowly dragged upward, bunching under his armpits until he sits back long enough to take it the rest of the way off. Their mouths meet again as he drops it over the side of the couch - Brad’s lips are chapped and he has the lightest sandpapery layer of stubble, and he feels perfect. Patrice thinks they could stay like this for years and he’d never get sick of those textures.

He figures it’s probably been long enough when Brad starts to squirm, rubbing against him impatiently. Patrice slowly moves away and stands up, gently pulling Brad after him so they can go into his bedroom. The door is closed so that Wilson can’t bother them, then Brad abruptly takes over and sits Patrice on the edge of the bed. His sweats and boxers are yanked off in one movement and Brad kneels, hovering for a second.

“I always wanted to do this,” he admits, playing with Patrice’s cock for a moment before putting his mouth on it.

Patrice breathes in hard through his nose, digging his fingers into the mattress as his eyes roll back and close without him meaning them to. He was already mostly hard just from them kissing in the living room but now he’s definitely all the way there. He can’t stop the moan that escapes when Brad’s tongue rubs across the sensitive spot under the head of his cock, sending a jolt through his nerves. Brad’s hands find the tops of Patrice’s thighs and squeeze a little, which for some reason makes the other sensation more intense. It’s been too long since he last got sucked off so having Brad there is kind of overwhelming.

Eventually Patrice has to pull him off. “I’m getting too close, you gotta stop…”

Brad nods agreeably. “Are you topping me, Pat?”

“I planned on it, yeah. The stuff’s in the bedside table.”

Brad rummages for a second. “Hey Bergy?”

“Yeah?”

“I just - um, are you clean? ’Cause I am so if you are too we don’t have to use a rubber.”

“Oh. Yeah, it’s fine, I don’t have anything.”

“Cool.” He pulls out the bottle of lube and hands it to Patrice, then sheds the rest of his clothes and lies back on the bed. “Just - go slow, okay? I don’t usually bottom.”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll be gentle.”

There’s something really right-looking about Brad sprawled on his bed like this, pink-faced and breathing a little hard while waiting to get fucked. He’s just… gorgeous like this. Patrice doesn’t know how he never noticed before, because Brad’s always going around shirtless for whatever reason. Brad’s perfect. There’s really no other word to do him justice.

“Are you just gonna stand there staring, Bergs?”

“Sorry. You’re just - fuck, Marchy, you’re beautiful.”

Patrice can’t stop the words from coming out, but he doesn’t regret that too much because Brad immediately preens. Patrice doesn’t pop open the lube yet, instead choosing to crawl up the bed and kiss him. Everyone thinks and talks about sex as the ultimate source of pleasure but kissing is so underrated.

Brad’s skin is hot against his in every spot where they’re touching. Patrice flips open the cap on the lube, squeezing a some onto his fingertips and feeling for a second. Brad twitches a little at the first touch, then relaxes again. He’s so reactive and Patrice loves that. He just circles his finger for a moment, spreading the clear jelly around. Brad watches his every move from under eyelids that obviously want to shut but are being forced open. Patrice stills for just a second to plant a kiss on one of his pecs and his eyes close.

He takes his hand away in order to add more lube, then very gradually slides his index finger in. Crooking that finger just so finds Brad’s prostate and makes him squirm a little. Patrice teases and rubs it, smiling to himself as he does, until Brad starts to whimper. More lube, but on his cock this time, applied liberally to try and help the initial discomfort that Brad will feel.

Patrice kisses his sternum this time: “You ready?”

“Yeah,” Brad gasps out.

It’s actually not such a great angle for this kind of sex, but Patrice wants to be able to see his face and sometimes kiss him. He watches Brad take a couple of deep breaths and positions himself, guiding with his hand. Just an inch or so at first - Patrice holds still, letting him get used to the feeling before sliding forward another inch. Brad’s trembling a little and at first Patrice worries it might be pain, but there’s none to be found in his expression. He’s not being hurt, just overwhelmed. Good. They both moan when he’s all the way in and can’t go any further.

Patrice stills, waiting for Brad to relax a little. He’s not sure which one of them is sweating, but it sticks their skin together, making him feel even more intensely. Patrice gradually slips most of the way out so that only the head of his cock is still inserted, then presses back in just as slowly, making sure to rub along Brad’s prostate as he does. Brad shudders and whines, grabbing Patrice by the shoulders and sandwiching them even tighter together. Patrice responds by holding still again and kissing him… kissing Brad will never get old.

He starts moving a little more, trying to find a rhythm that works. It’s not the desperate rush he’s seen in porn, two people frantically pounding away in a mindless sprint to the finish. Patrice’s entire goal is to make up for his idiot behavior in 2011, to make Brad feel as good as possible. He doesn’t even care that much if he gets off or not so long as Brad does, so long as Brad is shot through with amazing sensations. Brad deserves only the best and Patrice will be the one to give it to him. Every twitch, every small shiver, every quiet needy sound is a step closer to realizing that goal. He can feel all of Brad’s muscles tensing up and releasing under him, over and over, and there’s fingertips pressing into the meat of his back hard enough that he’ll probably have bruises for a week. Patrice loves this. He loves making Brad feel good.

Patrice forgets what time is, completely absorbed in the task at hand. So it somehow feels too soon and like it’s been such a long time both at once when Brad is gasping raggedly in his ear, begging for Patrice to make him come. Patrice kisses the side of his neck because even the word “yes” is too much to say, then worms a hand between them to wrap around his dick. It’s too much, Brad’s squirming and clenching enough that Patrice is losing control - he’s going to come soon, too. He doesn’t hear Brad howl so much as he feels it, the stickiness finding his stomach and fingers. There’s such intensive tightening on his cock at the same moment, Patrice can’t hang on anymore, he comes inside Brad with a jagged groan.

They both go slack, completely still for a long time and just breathing. Patrice could probably take a nap like this if they weren’t so sticky, glued together with sweat and come. He doesn’t move to get up until his trapped arm starts to go numb, and at least he manages to get it free before Brad grumbles in protest and grabs on, holding him there. Patrice chuckles and settles in again as his now-soft cock slips free.

They’ve been lying in stillness together for long enough that Patrice is ready to fall asleep when Brad finally says something. “Pat?”

“Hm.”

Brad takes a breath. “So. Uh. As great as this was, we can’t… we can’t ever do this again. It hurts too much.”

Patrice lifts his head and makes eye contact, concerned. “Did I not use enough lube?”

“What? No, I meant…” Brad huffs, frustrated and sad. “No. Like feelings and shit. Because. Like. We’re not on the same page, are we? You’re, uh, you’re not my boyfriend, and… you made it pretty obvious that you’re never gonna be. And. Uh. This was really nice, but… like I said, it hurts too much.”

Patrice randomly thinks back to a couple years ago, cuddling a drunk Brad off to sleep after a win. How Brad was so unhappy the next morning, getting a sliver of an unreachable dream by waking up in Patrice’s arms. Patrice had tried to help but only made it worse back then. He’s managed to achieve the exact same effect here, only probably a hundred times more painful. He hates himself as he realizes this.

“I’m sorry, Marchy,” he murmurs. “I just wanted you to feel better… this was a bad idea and I forgot that it’s a bad idea until just now.”

“It’s okay,” Brad answers quietly. “I know you didn’t hurt me on purpose. You never do.”

That just makes Patrice feel worse. Knowing that he did this to Brad, that he’s been doing this to Brad the entire time they’ve known each other, is like having a knife driven into his chest. He has to wait until he stops feeling like he’s going to throw up before he can say anything.

“I’m sorry, Brad. I don’t know what I was thinking… I’m just sorry.”

“I know you are,” Brad whispers. “It’s not your fault, though. I’m the one who keeps letting this happen.”

Tired and sticky-skinned, they lie there and cry for awhile.

**Author's Note:**

> Part 5 will arrive on August 21.
> 
> Please comment.


End file.
